Silesian Station (2008) (21 page)

'Frau Grostein is,' Russell said, wondering who the hell Frau Umbach was.

'Wait there,' the maid said, shutting the door in his face.

She returned a few moments later to beckon him in. 'This way,' she said, leading him down a hallway, through a very modern-looking kitchen, and out into a small, secluded courtyard garden. Sarah Grostein was sitting at an iron table, under a pergola draped in deep red roses. She was wearing a simple blouse and slacks, smoking what smelt like a Turkish cigarette, and halfway through writing a letter. Her mass of wavy brown hair certainly looked feminine, but in all other respects she fell lamentably short of the official ideal of Nazi womanhood.

'Mr Russell,' she said, offering him a chair.

'Frau Umbach?' he asked.

She grimaced. 'I should have told you. My friend has decided I should use my maiden name. For obvious reasons.'

'I got your message.'

'Good. Freya wants to meet you. And so does Wilhelm, come to that.'

'Why?'

She smiled. 'I think he's looking for some publicity, but...'

'For what?'

'He can tell you that. Are you busy this evening, around six o'clock? That was one of the times they offered me.'

He hated giving up precious time with Effi , but she would understand. 'I'm free.'

'I'll confirm it with them this afternoon. You have a car?'

'Of a sort.'

'You can pick me up then. Say five-thirty.'

'Fine.' He considered telling her about Gorodnikov, but decided it would be safer to have that conversation in the car.

As she led him back to the front door, he caught a glimpse of a Kandinsky on the living room wall. 'Doesn't your friend object to the painting?' he asked.

'He likes it,' she said simply, and opened the door.

'Five-thirty,' he reiterated over his shoulder.

The Hanomag looked particularly down-at-heel in its current surroundings. The luxury models which usually lined Altonaer Strasse were nowhere to be seen, but not, Russell suspected, because they were out on military manoeuvres with the Wehrmacht. Those cars would have been hidden away for the duration at their owners' country homes.

A tap on the fuel gauge revealed that the Hanomag was running low on petrol. The big garage on Muller-Strasse was almost on his way to Kuzorra's, and had a public telephone he could use to call the studio.

The garage was open, but would only sell him five litres of petrol. There was a shortage, the manager told him, with the air of someone explaining something for the umpteenth time. The military had first claim on what there was, and everyone was running short. All over Berlin regular customers were getting ten litres, strangers five. He should go to his local garage, and not waste too much time about it - the autobahn service stations had already run dry.

Russell took his five litres and pulled over beside the telephone to call the studio. The woman who answered seemed only half-there, but managed to repeat Russell's name and message back to him. 'That's for Effi Koenen,' he repeated. 'Oh,' she said, as if it was the first time she'd heard the name.

He drove on to Kuzorra's, wondering whether he'd even reach his local garage with this much petrol in the tank. Maybe the SD had stores set aside for their best agents. He couldn't imagine the Gestapo running dry - cruising up and down streets looking ominous was what made them happy.

Frau Kuzorra's welcome seemed chillier than before, and her husband, en-sconced in his usual chair, could only manage the wryest of smiles. The man looked older, Russell thought, as he refused Frau Kuzorra's half-hearted offer of coffee.

'I won't waste your time,' Kuzorra said once Russell was seated. 'I have to give up this enquiry.'

'Why?' Russell asked simply.

'I will tell you, but I ask you not to repeat any of this. Except to Herr Schade, of course. And please ask him not to repeat it to anyone else.'

'I will.'

Kuzorra leant back in his chair. 'A few days ago I received a visit from an old colleague - a man whom I disliked intensely when we worked out of the same office. He is still on the job, a Kriminalinspektor now. He was always a brown-noser - an old term, and one that gained a double meaning when Hitler's thugs started running things on the streets.'

Frau Kuzorra muttered something under her breath.

'In my own home I will speak the truth,' Kuzorra told her. He turned back to Russell. 'I won't tell you the man's name because it's not relevant. Anyway, he came to see me last Sunday - he was waiting outside when we returned from church. He told me there had been complaints from railway staff at Silesian Station - and from some of the stall-owners - that I had been harassing them. He wanted to know why I was trying to cause trouble over some miserable Jewish girl. Her disappearance - if she really had disappeared - was police business, and I should keep out of it. I argued with him, said the police had done nothing. He just smiled and said they had done everything that needed doing, and that there was no need for a retired private detective to waste his time on such a business. I said it was my time to waste, and my living to earn. He said not anymore, that my license to operate as a private detective had been withdrawn. I tell you, the bastard was really enjoying himself. And there was more. If I carried on with the investigation I would be putting our pensions at risk. Our pensions, you understand. Not just my police pension, but both our pensions from the state. We could not live without them. So...' He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'I am sorry.'

'So am I,' Russell said. He was wondering whether Thomas had also been leaned on. 'The last message you left for me - you said Miriam had been seen with a man.'

'I have been told to tell you I discovered nothing,' Kuzorra said, 'so please, be careful how you use what I tell you. The witness...it wouldn't help you to know who he is. This witness thought he recognized Miriam from the picture you gave me.' He took it out of his wallet and gave it back to Russell. 'He wasn't absolutely sure, but he thought it was her. And he saw her talking to a man. A man he has seen before at Silesian Station. He's about fifty, average height, a little overweight perhaps. He has closely-cropped grey hair, a little like mine, the man said.' The detective ran a hand across his grey stubble. 'And eyebrows which are darker than his hair. He was wearing some sort of dark blue uniform - my witness thought it might be a chauffeur's.

'I spent a couple of hours at the station on the Thursday evening, but no one of that description met the train which Miriam had taken. So I went back on the Friday. More in hope than expectation, but there he was. At least, I think so. My witness doesn't work on Fridays, so I had no way of confirming that this was the man he saw with Miriam. But this man matched the description, except for the fact that he wasn't wearing a uniform. He did spend a long time on the concourse, scanning all the arriving passengers as if he was looking for someone. He didn't speak to anyone though, and there were several attractive young women whom he might have approached. After the passengers from the 9pm arrival had all gone through, he simply turned on his heel and walked out through the main entrance. He had a car - a big one - parked on Stralauer Platz, and I managed to see the number plate as he drove off.' Kuzorra looked sheepish. 'But by the time I'd dug out a pencil I'd forgotten most of it - my memory isn't what it was, I'm afraid. I am sure the number ended in thirty-three - that's not a number I'm likely to forget.'

The year Hitler got a proper job, Russell thought. The year Kuzorra lost his. 'Why do you think your colleague came to lean on you?' he asked.

'I don't know. Just spite, perhaps. He heard about the investigation - may-be someone at Silesian Station really did complain - and he felt like making a point. Police detectives get very territorial, even the best of them, and this one's scum. Maybe he just couldn't bear the thought that someone was trying to help a Jew. Or he's been holding a grudge against me for heaven knows what reason and finally found a way of getting his own back. Who knows?

'The other possibility is more worrying, at least as far as you're concerned. Let's say that the man I followed to his car really did have something to do with the girl's disappearance. If he noticed my interest... I mean, I have no idea how he could have found out who I am, but if he had friends in high places, or he works for someone who does, then my old Kripo colleague could simply be the messenger. One who enjoyed delivering the message of course, but not the instigator.'

Russell considered this possibility, and didn't like where it took him. 'Thank you,' he said, getting to his feet. 'You've sent your bill to Schade & Co?'

'No. I...'

'Send it. You've done the work.'

'It's here,' Frau Kuzorra said, appearing beside him with a neatly-typed invoice.

'I'll pass it on to Herr Schade,' Russell told her.

Kuzorra was also on his feet, offering his hand. 'If you ever find her, I'd like to know,' he said.

'You will.'

Back in the car Russell took out the Rosenfeld family photograph and looked at Miriam. 'What kind of a mess are you in?' he asked her.

It was a little after three-thirty - time for a short stop-off at the Adlon before picking up Sarah Grostein. None of his friends were in the bar when he arrived, sparking fears that he was missing a major story, but another journalist told him that boredom had driven them upstairs for a poker session.

After some deliberation, Russell phoned Schade & Co from a booth in the lobby. Thomas was out of his office, but his secretary managed to track him down.

Russell asked him if he'd had any visits from the authorities.

'No. Why?'

'Because they resent your interference in what is clearly a police matter. And I must say, I tend to agree with them.'

Thomas was never slow on the uptake. 'I suppose you're right.'

'Well, they've certainly convinced Kuzorra.'

'I take it he's quit.'

'He has. And I think we should give up on it too. We're not even certain the girl ever reached Berlin.'

'That's true. All right. What else can we do, anyway?'

'Good. We're agreed. Now, about that fishing trip we were going to take - we need to talk about it. Can I come over tomorrow lunchtime?'

'Yes. Good. I'll get the maps out.'

'Okay. Bye.' Russell clicked the line dead and burst out laughing.

Sarah Grostein was waiting for his knock. 'I must be back by eight,' she said as they walked to the car. She had changed since the morning, and was now wearing what Russell's English aunt called a sensible skirt. Her hair was tied back, and her face bore no signs of make-up. She was wearing low-heeled shoes, which only seemed to emphasise how tall she was.

'Where are we going?' Russell asked, starting the car.

'Didn't I tell you? Friedrichshain. The park. The cafe near the Konigsthor entrance - do you know it?'

'I once took Albert Wiesner there for a coffee and a fatherly chat.'

She laughed. 'Did he listen?'

'No, not really. He enjoyed his cream cake though.'

'He's in Palestine now.'

'I know. I had a letter from his sisters a few weeks ago. They're doing well.'

'Thanks to you.'

'They earned it.'

'Yes, but...' She fell silent as Russell squeezed the Hanomag between a tram and a parked car, then changed the subject. 'Was it you knocked on my door last night?' she asked.

'Yes, I'm sorry. I misunderstood your message. I hope it didn't...'

'No. I told him someone was knocking on the neighbour's door. '

'He looked out of the window.'

'Yes, he saw your car.' She took out a cigarette.

They were on Invalidenstrasse in the Friday rush-hour, and the miserly number of motorists could hardly believe their luck. Russell wondered what the Wehrmacht was doing with all the cars. There weren't that many generals to drive around.

'I have some news for you,' he said. 'I had to go to the Soviet Embassy last week on other business - journalistic stuff - and I passed your request to the relevant person. They'll check you out with Moscow, of course, and with whatever's left of the KPD leadership. Assuming that all goes okay,' he said, glancing across at her, 'they want me to be your contact here in Berlin.'

She looked surprised at this. 'I didn't realize...' she began.

He thought about explaining his involvement, and decided against. She didn't need to know.

'It sounds like a good idea,' she said at last. 'We are people who could have met and become friends in ordinary circumstances.'

He glanced at her, wondering if that was true. 'You've got my number,' he said. 'And I'll give you my girlfriend's as well. But please, only use hers in an emergency. She's not involved in this.'

They sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Every so often she flicked the ash from her cigarette out of the window, but seemed too lost in thought to actually smoke. The sun appeared behind them as they drove east on Lothringer Strasse, and by the time they reached the entrance to the Friedrichshain park the sky was rapidly turning blue. Freya and Wilhelm Isendahl were waiting by the sculptures of Hansel and Gretel at the foot of the Marchen-Brunnen waterfalls.

They looked like the ideal Nazi couple. Freya's shoulder-length blonde hair framed an open face, very blue eyes and a ready smile. Her clothes and shoes were both attractive and practical, and her skin had the freshness of innocence. Wilhelm was equally good-looking, but several years older. His neatly-parted hair was a darker shade of blonde, and his eyes were green. The long nose and full mouth reminded Russell, somewhat unfortunately, of Reinhard Heydrich. Which raised all sorts of interesting questions.

Both were wearing wedding rings.

They introduced themselves, Sarah and Wilhelm exchanging nods of recognition. Walking on into the park Russell remembered his last visit with Albert Wiesner. The trees had been bare, the grass flecked with snow, and Albert had been silently daring every passer-by to call him a Jew. The cafe owner had risen to the challenge, and initially refused to serve them.